


Endure

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Related, F/M, Grief/Mourning, It didn't exist, Jedi Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker Needs A Hug, Luke Skywalker's Mechanical Hand, Missing Scene, Mon Mothma Needs A Hug Too, Movie: Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Powerful Lonely People, Pre-Battle of Endor, Rare Pairings, so I wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: Skywalker was a popular figure within the Alliance. But he exuded solitude at this moment. Mon knew it well. Power, like grief, was isolating. Had it numbed him as it did her? The Force had failed him. Not offering the solace he needed. Had he battled its inadequacy with the anesthesia of solitude? Found frailty was best countered with detachment? The Jedi seemed lost. Disconnected. Alone. Like her.It was strange. She had a lot in common with Luke Skywalker.





	Endure

Another briefing. This one would be different.

Mon Mothma stood in the command center of the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser. Floating in—surrounded by—space. The expanse of stars was endless. An inorganic vacuum. 

A galaxy of loss.

Her top teeth dug into her lower lip. She was stronger than this. She had to be. Her eyes burned. Mon glanced left. Right. No one was looking. Wiped them. 

General Madine had delivered the news less than an hour ago. Reluctantly, regretfully. Accompanied by profuse apologies regarding timing and sensitivity. There was no good hour to learn your son was dead. No moment immune to heartache. Grief was inevitable. Powerful. No shields for this.

Killed in Action, said the datachip. Mon believed the report; she had no other choice. Interrogated by the enemy. Tortured on Hoth. Slaughtered without mercy. Darth Vader himself had stolen him from her. The spectre of Death murdering her child. Her heart.

Mercy wouldn’t have made it better. Nothing could make it better. Not the numerous acts of meritorious honor detailed by the troops he commanded. Not the holo-recording in her hand. The one she was afraid to hear, knowing it would be his last. What terror in his voice, what—

Her son was dead. Her daughter lived.

The thought did not comfort. 

Jobin had been gone for almost a year. Months she had wondered at the absence of news. Weeks she fought against the likely truth. Days of cruel, unrelenting hope in a mother’s heart. Unruly hair and crooked smile, he’d been hers.

A sacrifice. Everyone had made at least one. For this war. For the Alliance. She was among many who had felt this way. Who had lost.

“Mon…” General Madine had walked over from his data station. Crix. A friend. A good soldier. He’d allowed her as much privacy as he could. Space to process. “It’s time.”

Mon Mothma nodded. Headed to the briefing room. Her people had assembled. They expected her to plan. To explain. Highlight difficulties. Inspire. She pushed away the doubt in her mind. The Emperor had to die. Her generals had convinced her. It was an uncomfortable truth—the Rebellion was about to resort to assassination. For victory. She wouldn’t think about Palpatine now. Or the days of the Senate. Memories and regrets had not saved the Republic, the Jedi, her friends, or her son.

She launched the briefing exactly on time. Focused on projecting resolve, her words clipped and succinct. Data should not be muddied by emotion or hesitancy. She continued. Expectant faces around the room. Hearing the information she needed to deliver. Details must not be lost. Victory was enmeshed in details.

Mon struggled—just a moment. Acknowledged the Bothan forces. They had given so much. Paid dearly for their bravery and loyalty. Each death had always weighed heavy on her heart. And her conscience. Each loss now reminded her of her own.

_Maybe it wasn’t true—maybe the datachip—_

Denial wouldn’t change reality.

Mon Mothma swallowed sadness. Sour and tart. Its taste threatened her composure. She had to focus. She turned the briefing over to Admiral Ackbar. No one noticed her pain. The private weight of grief settled heavier on her chest.

Crix was up next. She caught his eye. He nodded. The worry he must feel nowhere on his face. Crix was a good partner in this bloody business of Rebellion. His nod communicated what she needed. She was their leader. Leading was something she was used to. Something she was good at. Even when it meant leading friends, allies to their deaths. 

And more would continue to die. For the cause. The end of the Empire was near. Mon believed it. This was no longer a choice, either. Belief in the future. The clichés: the triumph of justice. Good over evil. Democracy over tyranny. 

She tried to believe in the worth of sacrifice as well. She had to.

General Solo was now recruiting for his command crew. Shock at Leia Organa’s quick enlistment was interrupted by a new volunteer, assured voice ringing out. A surprise entrance. Heads turned to see Luke Skywalker enter the chamber. 

Dressed in a sober black ensemble, the former pilot walked heavily. Mon’s gaze followed him down the stairs to her right. His presence was welcome. Commander Skywalker had proven himself repeatedly. Renowned in combat, the hero of many battles. It was a reputation incongruous with his youth. He was respected, a capable leader. An asset to his squad and the Rebellion. She read confidence in his movements as he made his way towards the Princess. Skywalker radiated something vital. Virtuous. It was clear the rumors were true. 

A Jedi Knight.

The crews liked him. The soldiers and veterans loved him. The Alliance as a whole celebrated the return of the Jedi—a force for righteousness in the galaxy. 

But they were young fools, rushing headlong into an impossible situation. Disregarding danger and careless of risk. Leia didn’t have the expertise. Or the time. The Alliance needed her—not enough diplomats in their ranks. Mon would speak to the Princess later about such selfish risks. She couldn’t go. Preposterous. And now Skywalker, enthusiastically joining the crew. Both eager to be on Solo’s shuttle. Everyone knew the group was close…but this was a suicide mission. 

Everyone knew that as well.

Skywalker also should not have volunteered. Mon didn’t doubt the man’s convictions or abilities. But she had seen up close what war did to heroes. Now a Jedi, Skywalker was the only one left. His loss would be more than human. It would damage hope for the new era, with the Jedi reborn. Skywalker’s death would be symbolic. Harm morale. Call the Rebellion’s methods into question.

They couldn’t lose a Jedi. 

The Jedi.

This train of thought was too clinical. Detached. Tragically so. Mon Mothma pushed it away. Focused on the newly reunited friends. 

Clear tension in Leia’s eyes, after that embrace. Stiffness in Skywalker’s shoulders as he pulled away. He spoke to Leia briefly. Turned to greet his other friends. The entire room looked on. Witnessed.

Was her protégé the source of Skywalker’s distress? Mon dismissed the thought. It wasn’t her business. Not normally… Although anything that was a distraction from mission success was of concern. People talked about Leia and Solo as if they were a couple. The young woman hadn’t confided in her, though. Not yet. But she’d seen them together. That was enough. They’d suffered together. Fought together. Mon Mothma knew the strength of bonds forged in those fires.

Bail would have approved.

Where did that leave Skywalker? The trio seemed happy. And Jedi didn’t marry. 

It must be something else.

Mon decided to let it go. 

~~

Post-briefing, the hours stretched on. Countdown to coordinated action. Simultaneous, meticulously planned attacks. Meetings. Preparations. Contingencies. 

Mon Mothma walked through the capital ship’s corridors. The main hangar was raucous with energy. The squadrons enjoying a last hurrah. Camaraderie and celebration for a little while. General Calrissian would soon lead them all in the assault.

She always forced herself to stop by. Nod pleasantly. Try not to mentally calculate casualties. Or remember past defeats. Her generals had estimated losses as high as forty percent for this battle. Mon had made her face placid at the news. Bit the inside of her cheek until it bled.

She had needed a sedative to sleep that night. Something she hadn’t done since the dissolution of the Senate.

Now she walked briskly. Projected calm confidence. Mon returned smiles and greetings tightly, legs stiff and neck locked. She was more than a figurehead. A leader. The Senator turned strategist. Turned stone.

Mon forced another smile as she passed Keir Santage. One of their best pilots. He lifted a bottle of Phibian beer in her direction. Someone had found an old crate of it. It had to taste awful—gone bad some thirty years ago. No one would have known by the smiles in the hangar.

Twenty standard minutes. Twenty standard minutes she could handle this. Then return to her cabin. Avoid thinking about Jobin somehow. Try not to imagine what his last moments had been like. Fear. Pain. The cold of Hoth’s frozen earth.

She stifled the speculation with a mental slap. To many, she no doubt appeared an ice queen. It was true her emotional shields were often fully engaged. But it was ice that had stolen her son. She hated it. She would allow herself some warmth. Even if it was false and manufactured. Defy sorrow’s chill. 

She waved away invitations to stay. Refused drinks. Nodded kindly at the mechanics and flight crews swarming the area. Reached the exit at last. Out. Escaped.

Mon turned the corner. Voices faded. Headed towards the turbolift. The long corridor was empty—except for Skywalker.

He stood waiting for the turbolift. Back to her. Had anyone thought to assign him a berth? Perhaps with the Rogues. The sounds of revelry echoed distantly.

“It’s nice to see you again, Jedi Skywalker,” Mon said, protocol ingrained. The turbolift arrived. She stepped inside. Turned around. He still waited. Hadn’t moved. Eyes were far away, unfocused. “Jedi Skywalker?”

Mon stepped back out of the turbolift. Touched his arm. Worried despite herself.

He seemed to return from wherever he’d been.

“Excuse me.” Skywalker smiled, the expression infused with sadness. Did her own smiles look like that? Probably. “And you can call me Luke.”

“Is something wrong?” She cursed herself for asking the instant the words escaped her lips. She didn’t have time for his pain. She had enough of her own. But she _had_ asked. Now she would make herself listen to his response. 

Pure blue eyes locked onto her. The unexpected power of his stare made her freeze. He looked inside her, through her, past her. When he finally blinked, it was a relief.

“You can take back the question,” he replied, voice weary. “I understand.”

Shame, abrupt and piercing. He was a Jedi. Obviously had sensed her emotions. Reluctance. Regret. Selfishness. 

The turbolift stopped waiting, doors whooshing shut.

“I apologize, J- Luke.” Mon paused. Stupidly, tears approached. Had this war turned her into a monster? It seemed clear that it had. She was. Sending men to their deaths. Plotting assassinations and mass casualties… How could she not have time to listen to one man’s troubles? 

“I’ve had a difficult day, but that’s no excuse.” Words seemed disingenuous. How to help him? “There’s a party in the hangar. Maybe it would do you good to see friends?”

Luke reached around her with a gloved hand. Punched the button for the turbolift again, clearly rejecting this idea.

“I’m not so much in the party mood.”

She couldn’t blame him. “I’m afraid I feel the same, actually. And best to get some sleep in before you depart—” Mon checked her chrono. “Just over six standard hours.”

The lift arrived once more. This time she waited for Luke to get in before she followed. At least he had shaken off his daze. 

“Don’t feel like sleeping too much either,” he finally answered. The doors closed.

Something in his voice made her turn in the small space. Look hard at him. His color was fine. Jaw tense. Eyes clear, turning briefly to meet hers. Luke’s posture screamed fatigue and stress. Not dissimilar from her own, she supposed. 

Yet she wasn’t the one about to go on a mission. With friends and colleagues. Luke Skywalker was, however. The Jedi was distressed, and she had just told him to keep his problems to himself.

They hadn’t yet directed the turbolift. 

He was so young. Mon felt embarrassed for noticing. She struggled, battling the desire to ignore his pain. Dragged her eyes back to stare at the door. Too young for responsibility on his shoulders that rivaled her own. Skywalker’s reputation was heavy, oppressive. Forever branded by others’ hopes: Hero, Jedi. 

“Luke,” she said softly. His whole body turned towards her. Braced for something unpleasant. Tension-filled. Silent anguish bled into the space. “I’d like to ask again. And I mean it this time.”

He smiled, face suddenly handsome. She’d never noticed, not exactly. All young pilots were good-looking in a way. Blaster-proof arrogance held its own appeal. Skywalker no longer looked like one of them. 

“It’s all right.” His voice was calm. He spoke like a Jedi. Peaceful. Palliative. “I don’t even know what to tell you.”

Mon considered. Remembered his affection for his friends. “Leia was going to her quarters…” she offered. Would that make it worse or better? Maybe he had a crush? Wallowing in rejection?

“Leia has Han,” he answered quietly.

“Oh. Yes.” Was that regret in his words? She rued her insensitivity. “I’m sorry.” Mon finally sent the turbolift to the command deck. Her attempts weren’t making things better. That was evident.

“No, no,” he said, “it’s not like that at all. I’m happy for them.”

She forced a smile. Hoped it was what he needed to see. The turbolift alit on her level. Luke looked suddenly lost as the doors opened.

“You didn’t choose a deck, Luke. Did you receive a room assignment?”

The question shouldn’t sound personal. It did anyway. Like a proposition. What if he—

“May I join you?” He paused, serious. “If you still mean it?”

She had meant it. Did mean it. Wanted to help. That truth made her less a monster. 

Skywalker was a popular figure within the Alliance. But he exuded solitude at this moment. Mon knew it well. Power, like grief, was isolating. Had it numbed him as it did her? The Force had failed him. Not offering the solace he needed. Had he battled its inadequacy with the anesthesia of solitude? Found frailty was best countered with detachment? The Jedi seemed lost. Disconnected. Alone. Like her.

It was strange. She had a lot in common with Luke Skywalker.

“Of course.” Mon gestured down the hallway as Luke fell into step beside her. “I still mean it.”

~~

The Star Cruisers had begun life as passenger liners. Luxury ships for intergalactic transport. _Home One_ was now the Alliance capital ship. A command center. Her periodic base for years. 

Mon had refused the largest cabins. Ackbar convinced her to take this small suite. He had been stubborn. A reception area was required, for their leader. Otherwise, politicians would congregate on his bridge. He probably was right about that. The memory brought a faint smile.

As a result, her quarters were more than adequate. A living space that served as her receiving area. Kitchenette. Rather decadently appointed refresher unit—water valued highly by the Mon Calamari. Two bedrooms. The guest room for her children. When they visited. They never had. 

One never would.

Luke was quiet. She didn’t push. Mon decided against alcohol. Poured them both muja juice. She clutched her glass. Sat down on the sofa. Faced away from the window. She didn’t want to see the stars tonight. She’d expected Luke to sit across from her—there was a leisure chair. He didn’t. Settled on the other end of the sofa.

Maybe they both were avoiding the black chill out the viewport.

Mon took a sip of juice. The silence didn’t bother her. It enveloped her. The company of the man next to her was strangely calming. Comforting. She looked at him quickly. Surreptitiously. Not quite relaxed in his Jedi clothing. It was tight and worn-looking. When had he last slept in a bed?

And the one glove—over his right hand. Unusual, to wear it indoors. And just one. Mon reflected, watching him drink. 

Skywalker had lost a hand. She had read the _Redemption’s_ file a few months prior. Top of the line mechno-arm with synth skin. He’d been treated on their best medical frigate. Surely it hadn’t malfunctioned already.

Luke flexed his fingers. She’d been staring. Mon forced a smile. It would be rude to ask. She didn’t have to. He set down his glass. Peeled off the glove. Years of war and countless medcenter visits to the wounded had prepared her for the sight. She didn’t react to the exposed mechanics. The blackened, burned circuitry. As far as injuries went, it was minor. Repairable. She nodded. Acknowledged its purpose.

The Jedi said nothing, started to pull the glove back on.

“You can leave it off,” she said, meeting his eyes. He paused. Believed her. Put the glove on the table. “The med bay—”

“It can wait,” he interrupted. “Still works.” He gave her a slow smile. “Not pretty though.”

She said nothing. Bitterness coated her tongue. Luke had lost a hand. Her son had lost his life. The comparison was unfair. She had no armor against it. Couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. The words were low and smooth in her ear. She was about to ask—confused—but Luke continued. “For your loss.” He sighed. “I can sense it, I don’t mean to intrude. But …” He turned to her, real grief in his eyes. “I can feel it.”

Mon swallowed. How odd. She had almost forgotten what it meant to be a Jedi. To be around a Jedi. What was it like? To sense people’s emotions with the certainty of the Force, rather than intuition? A gift, reading her insincerity before. A burden, feeling her sorrow now. 

“My son,” she whispered. Mon looked away, not knowing what to do with Luke’s compassion. “He …” The words didn’t want to come. She drank her juice. Set the glass on the small table.

Fingers, warm, rough, closed around her empty hand. Surprising her. Grateful at the contact, she squeezed briefly.

“He was killed. On Hoth.” A deep breath. It was awful to say. It needed to be said. Her voice shook. “I found out today—They weren’t sure before. But…”

His fingers squeezed this time. A sigh of pressure.

“You can tell me, if you want,” Luke said. “About him.”

She shook her head stiffly. Pulled her hand from his. Back to her lap. Mon appreciated his sympathy, but wouldn’t dwell on it. If she couldn’t focus, Jobin’s death would claw her insides. Tear her apart.

“Thank you, Luke.” There. Her voice sounded more authoritative. Better. “I just need some time.”

He nodded slowly. She could see the movement out of the corner of her eye. Still didn’t look at him. He understood, she knew. Somehow. Abruptly the pieces seemed to fit together. 

“You…lost someone too?”

“Yes.” The affirmation was broken. The weight of grief split the single syllable into something heavier than sorrow.

Mon didn’t want to ask. Wasn’t sure she wanted to know. But she had committed to listen. If he needed to talk…

“My master.” The calm, even voice from before was gone. Mon exhaled slowly. Of course. All the Jedi had been killed years ago. It made sense for Luke to still mourn. Didn’t it? But weren’t Jedi supposed to—

“I returned. To continue my training.” His voice had found distance. Factual until the last word, which shook. “But...” He stopped. Abandoned the effort of speech before the ability itself was lost.

Mon did look at him then. No evidence left of the earlier self-possession. No authority or calm. A flush climbed his neck. Futile tears saturated his eyes but refused to flow. She knew what that was like. To be overcome by sorrow. Unable to surrender to it.

“Luke—” He couldn’t, wouldn’t look at her. Mon felt the same concern she had earlier, when he’d been unresponsive before the turbolift.

He put his head in his hands. The burned opening faced her. Charred metal pistons, gears. A raw souvenir of violence. 

She reached over. Her palm rested between his shoulder blades. Muscles beneath her fingers, knotted and rigid. The material of his tunic, soiled and soft.

They stayed like that for a little while.

Luke straightened, reached for his glass. She took back her hand. He drained the remaining liquid. Mon’s eyes followed its path down his throat. The room cast shadows on his cheeks. Darkened. Damp.

Wordlessly, Luke stood, taking her glass. Over to the kitchen. Returned with refills. He sat once more on the sofa. This time closer. Their legs almost touching.

“Do you ever lie to people?” he asked suddenly. 

Mon felt a trap. Blanched.

It was a perilous question. What was the correct response? How could she try to justify it to a Jedi—someone who could sense falsehood? Read her deceit just as surely as he’d known of her suffering?

“Yes.”

It was a simple answer. She couldn’t elaborate. Didn’t want to. She lied all the time. Never really considered them lies. Not exactly. It was called politics. Or morale building. Or diplomacy, or negotiation. It wasn’t called lying. But yes, that’s what it was.

“I’ve been lied to my whole life.” 

The statement was matter-of-fact. Mon felt the bite of guilt at his words. Was it a criticism of her admission? What did he wish to impart with this information? What was she supposed to do with it? Immediately her mind went to the war. The struggle. The dishonesty of the Emperor. The insincere Imperial promises for peace even as tyranny reigned. And then her own artifice. The dissimulations necessary to maintain order. To persevere when the universe has already collapsed. To pretend meaning when nothing makes sense. Surely there were reasons...

“By those I trusted,” he continued. 

The words were flat. Like reciting a particularly boring piece of legislation. Her guilt was joined by a stab of sympathy. Perhaps they had reasons, the people he trusted. Perhaps not. She knew nothing about him, about whatever misery had invited this confidence. But she understood well the need for pretense. Shading the truth for the greater good. Mon had no comfort to offer him. The galaxy was cruel. Life was unfair. People disappointed you. Which platitude would best serve a tortured young Jedi?

She contemplated these responses. Uncertain. Her tongue moved of its own volition. The promise came from somewhere unacknowledged. Instinctive.

“I won’t lie to you, Luke.”

He nodded. Once. Twice. A third time, as if convincing himself of that fact.

“Do you want to know?” Luke shifted on the cushion. His leg bent. Knee pushed into her thigh. His blue eyes sought hers. Trapped them. Held her gaze prisoner with a strength she felt in her bones. She knew if she wanted to look away, she wouldn’t be able to. 

She didn’t want to.

“Know what?” she managed. The answer seemed already certain.

“What they are. Were. The lies I was told.”

His question held the sincerity of a child. Mon paled at the possibilities. Her own history of deception disarmed her. She could not accept his trust. She had planned to be supportive. But this…

“No.”

She wanted to apologize. She was weak. Too weak for him. Luke’s expression was grateful, though. Not dismayed. It was true. She didn’t want to know. He would have known if she’d answered dishonestly. Mon doubted she was capable of it. It seemed impossible to deceive him.

Luke reached for her hand again. She gave it. Unthinking. His left clasped her right. Serenity descended. The torrent of her guilt receded like a distant memory. Had he done that? Was he still doing that? She didn’t want the answer to the question. She avoided looking at their hands. At the fingers now threaded in hers. Easier to look at him. Loneliness painted into shadows beneath his eyes. Loss etched as arcs framing his mouth. A reflection of herself. Unlikely. Undeniable.

Luke held her gaze. Still. Seeing her. Knowing. Mon’s breath hitched. The ornaments rose and fell against her white robes. She fought to compose herself. 

“Do you want me to stay?”

 _You’re welcome to,_ her subconscious replied brightly. _There’s a spare bedroom. You don’t have a bunk, do you? Why not take a nap?_

None of which were honest answers. She’d promised him honesty. Luke’s question had been sincere. No stress in it. No hesitation. His hand in hers was centering. Felt right. Of course he was welcome. Of course he could sleep in the guest room.

That wasn’t what he’d asked.

“Yes,” she admitted. The confirmation felt like awakening.

“Good.” He let go of her hand. 

Mon was at a loss. Unsure. What had just happened?

Luke stood up, unhurried. Back into her kitchen. She heard him, washing the glasses. She had misjudged his question. His intention. She didn’t know if she was mortified or not. He could stay. Of course. 

His glove, still on the table. A shield lowered.

Mon left the sofa. Her skin felt flushed. She fled to her bedroom. Give him time to leave. To spare her embarrassment. A retreat to the refresher. Mon Cala cruisers were incredibly water-efficient and water-friendly. No sanisteams on this ship. One of the benefits of aquatic species’ transports.

A long shower. 

When she emerged, all was quiet. Not a sound from the kitchen. The living area. Had Luke decided to sleep in the spare room? Did that disappoint or relieve her? Mon toweled off. Averted her eyes from the imperfections of age in her body. She was old enough to be his mother. Older. 

Both of them were grief-stricken. Damaged. Vulnerable. She didn’t need the complications. It was a bad joke. With a worse punchline. What was more ill-advised than a fling with a fighter pilot? _One with a Jedi._ She could imagine the holo-news headlines already.

Mon turned off the light. Slipped between the cool sheets. Pulled her pillow further down the mattress. Under her shoulders. Stinging eyes stared unseeing at the wall. She’d misunderstood. That was all. Wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe the muja juice had gone bad, fermented. It had been known to happen.

Time dragged. An indefinable noise. Not footsteps. Something else. Luke was still here. Entered her room. Mon didn’t move from her position. Eyes still glued to the blank space before her. The door to the refresher closed quietly. The sound of water. Good. He had needed to clean up.

She had overheard one of the Rogues saying Skywalker still travelled by X-Wing. No bunk or shower in that. A Jedi needed a more reasonable transport. The shower turned off. She tensed. That had been under five standard minutes. Her stomach tightened. Maybe he didn’t know about the ship’s recycling and filtration. Not every pilot cared about Star Cruiser specs, after all.

What—

The door opened. Shut. Then not a sound. Interminable silence, comminating. The mattress dipped. She would feign sleep… Maybe… Luke shifted. The covers pulled away from her skin. His mass displaced the air beneath. Mon’s exhale stuttered, giving her away. She squeezed her eyes closed. Frustration overwhelmed. It had been so long. She didn’t even—

His hand touched her. No hesitation or reluctance. Rested on her exposed left shoulder. A long moment. Mon catalogued the leaden weight of his palm. The calloused skin. He moved closer. The sheets quivered. She tried not to tense. She failed. He stopped.

“Luke…”

His name was the only word she had. She didn’t want him to leave. To give up due to her uncooperative body. The hand stayed on her shoulder. He still didn’t move closer. Mon felt foolish. More than she had in years. She screwed her eyes shut even tighter.

“Open your eyes.”

The words were low. Bore the weight of command. Briefly, she wondered how he’d known they were closed. She was facing away. Quickly dismissed the question. Mon complied, her lids heavy. The room was blissfully dark. The palest glow of stars illuminated her wall.

“Come here.”

She wanted to. Even needed to. What must it be like to read people so easily? To understand their fears? To sense their hopes?

She turned to face the man in bed with her. Her lungs ached. He had propped his head on his right hand. Damp hair mussed from the shower. His face was shaded, eyes lit by diffused stars. Looking at her. Careworn lines smoothed by darkness. His mouth all but invisible until he spoke again. A glimpse of white.

“Come here,” Luke repeated. 

There was nowhere to go but into his space. Into the calm of his presence. Mon shifted her hips. Moved her body across the small distance separating them.

And then somehow she was in his arms. He wrapped around her. Asking nothing. Denying nothing. Luke was warm. Naked. Like her. His embrace made that seem incidental.

It was grace he was offering. 

Luke turned slightly. Brought her with him. Mon’s cheek rested on the hard pillow of his bicep. Her arms bent against his chest. Palms flat on taut skin. The heartbeat beneath her hand was regular. Not fluttering like hers.

Mon wanted to close her eyes. But Luke had requested them open. She would try, to stay like this. Until her heart matched his rhythm. Steady. Strong. There was peace here. Somewhere. He was patient. Waiting for her to find it. 

This wasn’t what she had expected.

The air in his lungs moved her. A press of pectoral muscles against thin fingers. A retreat. In the darkness, just his skin. Not exactly damp. Not exactly dry. A contrast of rough and smooth. Sun toughened, heated. 

Alive.

Luke bent his arm. The muscle was still solid against her. Securing. Fingers at her nape. Resting lightly. Soothing.

Mon breathed. Her exhales were humid. She doubted she could impart comfort or calm. The knowledge embarrassed her. Her breath caught. Suddenly Mon wanted to stop breathing entirely. A brief, abrupt truth. Have Luke do it for both of them. He was better at it than she was. The balance of his respiration felt meditative. Practiced. 

Air left her in a rush. Mon had held her breath without realizing it. Breathing was never so difficult before. Frustration edged into her mind. Luke’s arms tensed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her lips moved against his chest. An accidental caress. She kept her eyes open. Luke would think this a mistake. Any moment now. What was he doing? With her?

Luke moved gently. Rolled her in the cradle of his arms. Onto her back. He disentangled. Mon winced. He stayed close. Resting on his side. Luke lay his left hand directly between her breasts. Against the bone. Her nerves wept. She was sure he could feel her heartbeat. It battered her chest. It hurt.

“I’m here,” he said quietly. 

She nodded. Trembled.

Fear had no place in her heart. Not now. Why was she unsettled? Hadn’t she asked him to stay? Mon battled once more for calm. It wasn’t working. She could feel _his_ peace. It ran from her. Faster than she could chase it.

“Tell me.” Another command. Mon didn’t understand. Another breath. Hard fought, hard won, left her nose. Luke’s hand pressed on her sternum. Insistent.

“I feel like…” _I’ve forgotten how to breathe…_ She couldn’t say it.

His hand moved. To her breasts, flattened against her chest. Luke’s fingers domed the modest swell of skin. She forgot about breathing then. It just happened. Back to normal. Reestablished a rhythm in her lungs. 

Mon relaxed. It didn’t make sense. Wasn’t this caress supposed to undo her? Not center her? She looked at him. The hint of a smile on his lips.

“Better?”’

“Yes.” She added his name. “Luke.”

His hand glided from her breast. Her nipple stiffened as he left her. Palm firm against her side. Pressing. Descending. It fell from the cliff of her lower rib. Rested in the hollow of her belly. Breathing was deeper now. Much easier. Oxygen flooded her blood. Hot. Surging beneath her skin.

Luke’s fingers slid around her waist. Tilted her towards him. Their heads left the pillows. The sideways embrace bordered on awkward. Her hand cupped his face. Her fingers traced lower, to his jawline. He hadn’t shaved. The scratch of his stubble was stabilizing. Like the rest of him. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t need to. She shifted her hand again, enjoying the scrape of his skin.

He stayed motionless, eyes soft. She touched.

The dip in his chin was sharp. The mole above it, to the left. A landmark to his lips. Her gaze stayed there. Maybe too long. She pulled it away. Scars. Not faded enough. Luke swallowed. The pulse in his neck visibly strong. Then muted once more. Blue eyes, in the darkness. Like hers. A lot like hers. Blurred by thought. Clouded with emotion. Afflicted by loss. Reading people; Jedi could do that. She only had intuition. And that was fogged as well. Distracted. Distorted by the hardness against her thigh. 

Again breathing became difficult. 

Mon didn’t want Luke to speak again. To ask. Or command. To make her think.

_If he says anything…I’ll…_

The thought came from nowhere. Mon blinked once. Her mouth compressed. Pursed. Relaxed. Breathing slowed. In. Out. Regular, long. She inhaled again. Eyes back on his mouth, the twin peaks of his upper lip.

He kissed her.

Every knot came undone. The burning in her lungs vanished. His lips’ pressure was even, firm. Her pulse sped up. Both hands threaded into his hair. Luke pulled her on top of him. They lay, stomachs touching. Mouths joined. Tasting intent. Shadows. But something bright too. Getting brighter.

The pull in her core was too strong. It stole Mon’s breath. She gasped. Too much, the sensation like panic. The kiss was broken. Luke’s neck was tight as her fingers moved to his shoulders. They could repair it. Lingering shades persisted. But darkness was almost gone. Mon closed her eyes, sought his mouth. Everything disappeared this time.

Absence of thought. Absence of time. Absence of death. 

Only presence. Life. His. With her. Luke’s hands massaged her back. Rough. Firm. But soft compared to the rest of him. The sharp press of his hip bones. The muscled waves of his midriff. The jut of his cock. The insistence of the immediate. Hard. Needy.

She shifted. Raised her hips and reached between her legs. Luke lifted his cock into her hand. Already slick. Maybe slicker than she was. Mon spread her legs. Guided him. His tip pushed against her, seeking. She adjusted, bracing herself on the mattress. He helped. 

The penetration hurt. Too much friction. Too soon. But a good pain. She welcomed it. Luke didn’t complain. Waited. Kissed the corner of her mouth. She made herself look up at him. He wanted her. Needed her. 

She was wet enough now. It had been a while. And he wasn’t a perfect fit. Pulling back, gliding forward. Movement like a half-forgotten dance. Sucking a breath. It felt like work. Then… All of him inside, stretching, aching. A moan rode the air out of her throat. A splintered sound.

Luke kissed her again. Thrust up. His mouth accepted her cries. His hands gripped her waist. Lifting her, lowering her. Mon’s knees slipped on the sheets. Fingers clenched on his shoulders. Nails dug into him. Mon flinched on his behalf. Luke shook his head, a quick movement.

He pulled out. Another kiss. Deep, thorough. Probably meant to be reassuring. It was. She already felt empty.

Luke slid from beneath her. A new position before she could process it. His chest, muscled and sweaty at her back. Lips at her shoulder blade. Encouraging. Fortifying.

She tilted her hips. Raised her ass until she felt him. This time her body was ready. His cock filled her. Sated her. Luke slid his hands down her arms. She followed them, eyes drawn to his wound. Bare. Unprotected and open. Mon tensed. A binary reminder of his suffering. Twice defeated. How many times had he lost? Hurt?

His fingers laced over the tops of hers. Mon closed her eyes. Felt no distinction. And then he fucked her.

Each crash of Luke’s hips, no longer restrained. Relentless. Desperate. Mon struggled to keep the angle stable under his weight. Her senses narrowed. Fragmented. Only his cock inside her. Taking her. The rich smell of clean sweat. The metallic musk of sex. She sucked in a long gust of air. Tasting it. Luke was panting. No longer controlled. The intensity crowded her reality. 

He paused. Half-in, half-out of her body. Hands leaving hers. His breathing broke the air. Jagged sparks of life from his lungs. She didn’t want him to stop. He shouldn’t question himself. Tears threatened.

“I’m—” Luke’s voice was strained. He faltered. Grief stalked his conviction. No longer held abeyant; its lure was patient and vicious. 

“Harder,” she interrupted. Mon also knew the force of command. No apologies. No more words from him. She could give orders too.

Luke’s breathing stopped completely. One. Two. Five seconds. She would not let him succumb. This was real. 

“Harder,” she whispered this time.

Those calloused hands now felt almost familiar. Settling on her hips. Testing. Aligning. A full withdrawal. Full penetration. Renewed thrusts, bordering on violence. Yes. Mon caught the scream at the edge of her lips. Bit it back. There was no room for anything but this. Luke fucked her harder, faster. His cock slammed into her cervix. His hands gripped her. Holding her where he wanted. How she wanted. Every nerve alight. Every cell on fire. Mon’s insides were raw, protesting as the friction increased again. Her lubrication couldn’t keep up.

Luke pulled out, silent. Turned her onto her back. Positioned her gently. Kissed her hard. A new kind of kiss. Sloppy. Impatient. Prosthetic hand between her legs. Mon hissed as he dragged a finger up her folds. Stopping at the top. Pushing. She shifted to direct him.

He found a rhythm. Sliced her body’s codes easily. Swiftly. Everything tightened. An ever increasing rise. Ascending. Clenching. Climbing until her juices soaked his skin. The sheets. It was painful now. Oversensitive. She jerked back. Pushed his fingers away. Forgetting to be careful.

The handsome brow furrowed. Mon reached for his face with her hand. The abrasion, the roughness a reminder of before. A stark contrast. She met his stare. Deliberately looked down his body. 

Luke moved atop her. The slick of his cock wet her leg. He shifted between her thighs. Solid. She bent her knees.

It was better. Better than better. Mon pulled him down, her ankles hooking around his legs. Luke shoved up, in, taking his time. She shuddered, sighed. His head was buried in her neck. Lips touched her skin. Sometimes teeth or tongue. 

This was going to end. The thought snuck up. Struck like a blaster bolt. Her breathing hurt once more. This reprieve was temporary. The distraction of him time-bound. Accidental. Even wrong.

She fought against the inevitable. The rising intensity that would finish her and end this. Her arms locked him to her. The slow pace was a new thing. Each drag of his cock pressed exactly right. Rasping on her clit. Too sensitive but…

The orgasm arrived cruelly. Brutally. It thrashed her from the inside. Blinded like a flash detonator. Her cry rent the darkness. It hurt. Mon sobbed once, head thrown back.

The ripples didn’t subside. Everything contracted around Luke. He still rocked deep inside her. So close. Tension in his legs. His arms. His head lifted from her throat. She felt the wet he left behind. 

Luke drove faster. She stared. The part of his lips, a groan leaving them. The bend in his nose. It had been broken, once. The construction of him, muscles that were perfectly molded to bone. Skin tight. Heated. Power rolling off him. Surrounding him.

Her hands drifted to his neck. His pulse was strong. Vibrating. Surging, throbbing at her fingers. It was mesmerizing, receiving him like this.

Luke came with a low sound. A gasp turned grunt. Mon turned her gaze to the ceiling. Gave him the privacy of his climax. Someday she would feel normal again. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But it was no longer in question.

He pulled out after, sighing. Didn’t leave her. Glided his arms beneath her pillow. Beneath her head. His lips found hers. An unadorned kiss.

He needed the fresher. So did she. They didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He looked at her, face solemn. She liked it. Unexpected, to like it. To not feel self-conscious. Her fingers moved through his hair. So soft. Fine. Luke lowered his head. Rested on her chest. Listened to her broken heart’s rhythm. Pulse. Respiration. None of this intimacy bothered her. He could know. Mon’s body kept the promise her lips had made. She would not lie to him. She was content.

Mon’s fingers continued to comb his hair. It was longer than she had realized. He needed a haircut. The thought made her smile. He could sense it. She felt the muscles in his face move. Knew it was a smile against her skin.

Eventually they shifted. It was a mutual realignment. A silently negotiated accord. Mon curled against his side. One arm looped around her. They didn’t sleep.

She closed her eyes. Waited. Luke started talking. A monologue about the future. The Alliance post-Empire. How would it look. Where would the Jedi fit in to a reordered galaxy. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t test her attention. She was allowed to simply listen. Accept words. She felt Luke wasn’t saying the things he truly wanted to, anyway.

“I’m talking too much.” The way he pronounced it made it difficult to argue. She did anyway. 

“No.” The more Luke spoke, the less she thought. It was a good arrangement.

“No?” Luke lifted his head. Raised an eyebrow. He looked very handsome.

She smiled. “No.”

His arm tightened. A nice squeeze. He stopped talking. If he was waiting for her… Mon had nothing to say. She was satisfied. That he was here. That he sounded like a Jedi again.

Her experience with the Jedi seemed a lifetime ago. They had been so strong. Numerous. Confident. Luke could succeed. He had idealism and endurance. A good combination.

“You should go to Chandrila,” she said. It came out. It was relevant. Luke had just confided in her. Explained his thinking. He needed guidance. Jedi history could help. So Mon told him.

His interest was real. Avid, even. It had been a long time since she’d thought of the Barsen’thor. The story was a long one. She skimmed over much. Provided the salient points. Some details were critical. Some superfluous. Mon was good at briefings, after all.

After the telling, Luke was quiet again. Considering. Contemplating something that consumed his attention. Probably not about the Barsen’thor. Something else. Thought was a solitary thing. It engendered distance. 

Mon remembered in his silence that she was grieving. Nausea struck. Her eyes started to water. She pulled away. Apologetic but unable to speak.

She fled the worry in his face. Went to the refresher. It was hard to see. She stood under the hot spray. Heat. The enemy of ice. A wail crawled up her throat. Mon pressed her hands to her lips, stifling. Leaned against the wall. She would be normal again. Everything would someday be normal again. She thought it like a mantra. After the battle. After the war.

She didn’t hear him come in. The water thundered knives against her flesh. And she hadn’t expected… Luke didn’t owe her this. It was too much. She had always been alone. She could mourn alone. Heal alone. She had to. Why should this be different?

His silhouette appeared in the doorway. A moment’s pause. The refresher light on the dim setting. Mon blinked. Bewildered. Relieved. He stepped inside. Unasked, but not unwanted. The stall easily held two. Water streamed down the line of his biceps. Fell in rivulets down his torso. Luke didn’t flinch at her condition. Unfazed by the boiling temperature she’d programmed. The shower turned his hair a darker shade as he reached around her, turning off the water. Her pain echoed in him, the redness in his eyes, the clench of his jaw.

Mon tried to straighten. Her body was still uncooperative. She stayed leaning. She met his gaze. Wretched. Luke studied her. She felt it. A rapid assessment. Acceptance. Recognition of shared wounds. There was no pity in his face as he reached for her, one-handed. Pulled her hard to him. Serious. Deliberate. She wanted to offer him more than chaos. But it was all she had. At his kiss, she wanted to strike. It was irrational. But true. Honest. Punch and kick and scream. He would let her. She knew he would let her. Instead she pushed him away. Fought understanding with hostility. She had no comfort to give. She wouldn’t take it from him.

It was pure pain. Pure regression. 

He waited. She gave in. 

After, they washed. Together. He reprogrammed the temperature. A fraction above tepid now. He shaved. She moved back to the bed. Luke followed. Settled the line of his limbs against hers. Sweet. Two hours, she thought. He had two hours.

“You should sleep,” Mon murmured. She should too. Stim treatments were not ideal. But it would get her through the next few hours. Until her shuttle came. 

“I don’t want to,” he replied. It sounded like a lie.

“It’s all right,” she said, forgiving him. 

“Will you?” Earnest. Sweet. Not like a Jedi, not now.

“No.” She wouldn’t ever lie to him. That was already incontrovertible.

He sighed, nodded. Turned onto his stomach. Tossed an arm over her. Was snoring in seconds.

The refracted glow of the stars wasn’t cold now. Not on his face. She watched, eyes dim. Smoothed hair on his forehead. Focused on his lines and contours. Concentration helped shut out everything else.

Thirty minutes passed. Mon slipped from Luke’s unconscious embrace. Dressed casually. No robes until later. Ignored the soreness inside and out. Packed her valise for the trip away from _Home One._ Ackbar had been adamant—she had to leave the command ship. Her kitchenette was well-stocked. She brewed caf. Made breakfast. Iktotch toast with berry syrup. Lieda’s favorite. Jobin hadn’t liked it. 

Luke joined her soon after. The smell too enticing to sleep through. He was delighted at the meal. Ate with the speed and gusto of youth. Mon took in the state of his tunic, pants. She should have used the laundry droid. Too late now.

She drank her caf. Sat across the small table. Noticed the glove, once more tight around his hand. Protective. A barrier.

“You missed the briefing.” Luke nodded. Had another bite of toast. “Did General Solo fill you in?”

He considered. Thought a moment. Shadows had already started to reappear on his face. “The basics,” he replied.

“The Pathfinders are departing soon for Endor,” she informed him. “Your shuttle, _Tydirium,_ will be in their hangar.”

Luke swallowed without finishing chewing. “What class?”

“Lambda. You can’t miss it.” It was true. They didn’t have a lot of Imperial ships lying around. “Stop by supply—C deck—and get forest gear.” She indicated his clothing. “They have better camouflage than that.”

“Thanks.” A pause. He drank his caf with a small grimace. 

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t normal either. Mon was glad for the heat of her drink. She didn’t eat. She wasn’t hungry. Luke had finished his cup. Years of diplomacy served her well. Mon stood, so he could do the same. Without guilt. _This meeting is ended._ The tacit language of political gatherings.

This was the danger zone. The moment when everything could be ruined. The wrong word, expression, action. She wanted very much for this Jedi Knight to be safe. To be strong. To be happy. She believed he wanted the same for her.

She moved to the door. He followed, feet heavy.

“I’ll come back.” He tried to make it sound light. Luke wasn’t good at this. Didn’t have her experience. 

She smiled. It was a real smile. “Yes, you will, Luke.” Leaned forward. Small kiss, slow, chaste. She would miss his lips. “But not for me.”

He understood. Didn’t know how to respond. She saw it. But he surprised her. Pulled her into his arms, a longer, deeper kiss. A goodbye kiss. Better by light years than the one she’d given him.

Luke let her go. Took her left hand in his. Last night’s sad smile back on his face.

Mon glanced at the security cam. No one outside. She punched the release with her free hand.

“May the Force be with you,” she said. Words said thousands of times. Somehow more meaningful when delivered to a Jedi. To him.

“With us all,” Luke returned. Her fingers enjoyed a final squeeze. Then he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists because I couldn't believe it didn't. Thank you for reading.
> 
> [Frangipani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/pseuds/frangipani) continues to astound with her beta awesomeness and we all benefit.
> 
> Thanks to the fic whining circle for humoring my muse, especially [atamascolily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atamascolily/pseuds/atamascolily) for the Mon Mothma context and [ celinamarniss ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celinamarniss/pseuds/celinamarniss) for the early feedback.
> 
> If you are curious, everything used to setup this scene is Canon and/or Legends, from [Jobin Mothma's death](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Jobin) to how Crix Madine delivers the news to Mon Mothma right before the pre-Battle of Endor briefing.


End file.
